


Maiden of the Tree

by Huntswoman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Asoiaf - Fandom, GoT - Fandom, game of thrones
Genre: AU, F/M, House Baratheon, House Stark, Nature, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1379890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntswoman/pseuds/Huntswoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>reunion!fic set sometime after the end of ADWD, featuring a grown-up Arya returned to a Westeros still at war. Spoilers for ADWD apply and Arya/Gendry fluff shall abound. I've tried to make it quite fairytale-esque, and am really playing up the "forest love" symbols for these two. Arya's on a quest for northern vengeance and locked in an internal struggle to remember who she is- Gendry is Gendry.<br/>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forests

Arya had clawed herself back from No One. Desperately, memories returned in staggered bursts of light and blood. But the cage of Death remained. Had it always been there? She sunk her head, seeing a butcher’s boy spilling a stench of blood in the grass. Her own grey eyes slid into black ones. Valar Dohaeris. All men must serve.  
  
She'd been Arya again for a year. Broken memories fought against Death's darkness in constant turmoil. But No One was failing. She could feel it, the sheer wolf strength of her memories biting back against the cold. the clarity of who she was- of Arya Horseface, of Arry, of a boy who looked like a bull, of a needle, it was all getting stronger. Her feet wore down with every step- the mud sucking and swallowing, a greedy drain on tired bones. Icy rain beat down for days at a time. _Valar morghulis._ No. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Her mantra changed along with her face. There was a direwolf, she remembered. She'd run away- no, died. She'd screamed when it happened. Or someone else had. The mud pulled her down to her knees, soaking through to the marrow. Would she have wept at that before? Alone, cold, mud clinging to her clothes, loathe to let her go. She didn't remember how it felt to weep. Could these eyes even spill tears?  
  
She slept in the bed the mud had made her. The bog stuck fast, entwining dark hair, knotting fingers, holding her down in the dredge of the earth. Sleep was fitful. Her eyes changed beneath their lids, stinging like fire when they opened, blinking back mud, stabbed by the scratching limbs of treetops above _._

_And me, your forest lass...._

She was sinking. Death held her ribcage, frail as a sodden leaf in the bog.  _Valar morghulis._ Darkness embraced her.  _Valar morghulis._ Arya's memories fell away.  _Valar morghulis._ The black earth blinded.  _Valar morghulis._ _Valar dohaeris._

No.

 A little girl that couldn't sew struggled against the binding damp. _No._ There was a wolf, gnashing and howling and tearing through the forest. Not one wolf, a pack. _Valar morghulis._ The cold hurts so.  _Valar morghulis._ The ice cuts so deep. _No._ Fear cuts deeper than swords. _No._ Fear cuts deeper than swords.

And winter is coming.

The cold blue dawn wrenched Arya's spine from the bonds of her murky bed. The mud gurgled beneath her toes. The forest parted way. Needles of rain fell in sleet but they would not harm her. No One remained at the nape of her neck but would not steal her eyes away. She remembered the cold now. The shivering. The winter. There was a castle, a castle of snow and ice. _Winter is coming._ The words were all grey eyes could see. _Winter is coming._ Arya Stark walked on through the rain. Days and nights passed. With each aching step, more memories were wrenched up from the deep. A pack of wolves, she was certain now. A broken pack, ruined by the Death still lurking in her lungs. Did she do that? Did she kill them? _No._ They were not all gone. She saw a girl with hair as red as fire, a white wolf with red eyes, a lad more wild than the lurking black beast behind him. She remembered no names, but she remembered the pack. And the castle, the castle in the North, in the land of winter. She saw it all, wild and rugged and stung by the tears of the weirwood trees. The north bled. The pack bled. 

And by the Red God would she avenge it.

X  


 

Smoke unfurled in a warm banner from the mossy chimney. Wreathing around gnarled branches, it sought the greater kingdom of the plum dusk sinking over the woods. A young man was below, birthing the smoke with billows on a raging fire. His black hair clung in a sweaty crown to his forehead as broad shoulders pumped the flames. The heat warped the very air he breathed. He shoved a mould of a sword into the fire, blue eyes stinging in the haze. With the steel in the angry red warmth, the man turned to his hammer, hefting it into one hand. When the sword burned yellow, he pulled it from the fire and set about beating it into shape. He panted as he worked. Again, again, he brought his hammer down. Sparks flew. The sharp clanging sent embers whizzing. The man liked the shout the metal made. It was dependable, steady. It meant there was work being done.  
  
He saw the bark outside the window gathering dew as dusk fell, and a song came to him, long-forgotten, buried beneath fallen autumn leaves and growing winter frosts. A song of the forest- something about a forest anyway. He remembered the tune but couldn't place where he'd heard it. His hammer beat on at the newly-forged sword. Shadows deepened. Owls and nightjars crooned their mournful calls, nocturnal beasts rustled in the undergrowth- the night forest came alive. The man was alone and the song still haunted him; something in the brisk night air drew him into a strange reverie. The woods, so familiar in the day, were now eerie, as if waiting with baited breath. The words of the song still eluded him. He hummed the tune. A hundred more beats of the hammer and he felt the song seeping into his skin, felt the silent shadows of the trees urging him on. Something about acorns – no – a forest, definitely a forest.  
  
It struck him like a hammer-blow to the spine. It was her song. A girl, dressed as a boy. The one he'd lost, so long ago. He threw the hammer to the ground. He remembered the words.  
  
 _But you can be my forest love…_


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My featherbed is deep and soft,  
> and there I’ll lay you down,  
> I’ll dress you all in yellow silk  
> and on your head a crown.  
> For you shall be my lady love,  
> and I shall be your lord.  
> I’ll always keep you warm and safe,  
> and guard you with my sword.
> 
> And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree.  
> She spun away and said to him,   
> no featherbed for me.  
> I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves,  
> and bind my hair with grass,  
> But you can be my forest love,  
> and me your forest lass

Arya stark had stolen a horse. A magnificient grey destrier, headstrong and fast. His stupid noble owner thought he'd have his way with the slip of a girl alone on the deer track- Arya nearly chuckled to herself when she recalled the sorry look on his face as she whipped a dagger from her underclothes. She'd warned she'd slit his throat should he make trouble. Stupid man. He made trouble, of course, so she sent a rain of blood down to moisten the forest floor. More death.  
  
The horse galloped on. The thicket which had barbed her progress for so long now had thinned, giving way to lush green banks jewelled in wildflowers. There was a tumbledown inn nestled snugly under the peak of a hill; hesitant at first, she resolved to head towards it. All she knew was North. She was needed North. But she was hopelessly lost, and steady drizzle kept her skin shivering.  
  
She arrived at the inn- the patrons were a wizened, sorry lot.  
"Ah, ye'll want the kingsroad" the innkeep murmured when she asked for North.  
"The kingsroad?" Did she know that road? Had there been a time, so long ago, when she rode along it in a carriage?  
"Aye" the innkeeper replied "east from here about thirty leagues- all forest, mind you. Thur's a few 'omesteads along the way, a forge too, for yer nice ‘orse."  
"And it's safe?"  
"To the kingsroad, I'd say so. But it's awful times we're in, awful. Kingsroad itself has armies bludging along it every day I'd say."  
"Whose armies?"  
"Yer really not a local are ye? We've had all sorts. Lions and roses, ironborn and northerners. Used to be wolves too but they're all dead now. Makes no difference to us folk who's fighting really. They tell us to fight and die, or those that can't can starve and die."  
"All men must die. But the wolves... You said there was wolves?"  
"Aye, from the North. All dead. Have been for donkey’s years. Honestly, where you from to not know this?"  
"South"  
"And you're going north? There's naught but death and winter there. Should've stayed south. With the wolves gone-"  
"You're wrong about the wolves, stupid"

The innkeeper shrugged and went on polishing a filthy glass. “I s’pose… there is talk of one, up Vale way, but tha’s probably just a rumour. Don’t do well to buy into rumours in these times we’re in.”

Arya paid for lamb broth with coin stolen from the man on the deer track, swallowed it all in three mouthfuls and turned to leave.

“Now, lass,” the innkeeper began, “Ye surely can’t be leaving now? It’ll be dark soon!”

“The dark suits me fine.” She swept from the room and into the stables, resaddling the stolen grey. There was no time to spare. The North needed her, the pack needed her. She knew where she was going now- _kingsroad_ \- surely she’d heard that before? Details were dampened by Death and the rain, but her direction was clear. The words were clear. Always the words. _Winter is coming._

Thirty leagues east and she’d be on her way. Back North. Back to the wolves whose howls plagued her dreams and whose claws clutched at her heart. _Winter is coming. And so am I._ Even if armies did march the kingsroad, they’d be little match for No One.

As she rode from the inn the rolling grass banks were cast in blue slate, the rain a heavy wash of grey on her back, with rivulets falling down her cheeks as tears. She crested the hill and was met with the forest spread beneath her; a black ocean of craggy pines and deep shadow. It was gaping, waiting. _Thirty leagues._ Thirty leagues and the way was clear. She sped the horse on- _fear cuts deeper than swords._ She tore down the slope, midnight hair flying behind her, mimicked in the matted white stream erupting from the horse’s head. She’d been a good horsewoman before, hadn’t she? A man had told her so. Or had it been a boy? A boy who kept bulls. She shook her head and kicked the horse forward.

 At the foot of the hill a gate of thorny bracken rose up to greet her. The trees strangled one another in a dense and dark embrace. The horse spooked. But beyond the forest was the kingsroad, and beyond that was North.

“ _On_ ” She urged, as much to her shaky sense of self as the horse. Into the undergrowth she rode, a black canopy leeching what was left of the overcast light. No rain fell. The damp earth was deep and branches tugged close. She rode on for hours, barely noticing when night fell. The horse picked its way through an overgrown cattle track, trotting across newly-made brooks and dodging rock slides. The silence of the trees echoed, turning her thoughts to waking dreams- a great weirwood overlooked a pool, a three-eyed crow cawed above a wall, a boy stared with eyes of dewy moss. Her spine shook. A twig snapped and she was woken from the visions. Her stomach growled. How long had she been riding? A few hours? More? It was too dark and her bones ached too deeply to begin a hunt. A skinchange would pull No One up from where she’d buried it, so that was out of the question. There was naught to do but ride on, hoping one of the homesteads the innkeeper had mentioned would present itself. She allowed her head to lull, sleep and waking and darkness merging, hair trailing on leaves and legs scratched by thorns.

_I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves…_

Hours more and birch trees glowed in an eerie white light. Lichen underfoot was awash in the same phantom glow. Arya craned her neck upwards to see a net of spindles masking a brilliant full moon.

 

X

The blacksmith in the cabin couldn’t sleep. It had been the same the night before, that song - the acorn song- became a torturous hum at the back of his skull, taunting him with a tune and half-remembered words. It was no good, he’d not endure the same wrestle with his sheets in a lonely bed, tossing and turning and desperately trying to forget those grey eyes. The moon shone bright into the cabin and he resolved to fetch kindling for the forge’s fire. Anything but that fitful drowning in sheets and regret. Anything but the song of the she-wolf in the forest.

_I’ll always keep you warm and safe…_

X

A barn owl took the horse off-guard. Arya was half asleep as the bird swooped in like a pale ghost, screeching a cry like a knife into the silent belly of the woods. The horse whinnied and reared, tearing off from the track with breakneck speed.

“Seven hells!” Arya shouted a curse she barely remembered. The suddenness of the gallop left her clinging to the beast’s mane – in vain – it leapt clean over a fallen oak and she was flung from the saddle onto a moonlit slope. The fall had her tumbling downwards, limbs shattered and skin grazed on tree-roots and underbrush. _So, not such a good horsewoman after all._ The damned horse was nowhere to be seen by the time she gathered enough strength to sit up. _Stupid._ Everything hurt. Death clamped cold on her chest. _No._ She found herself on a bed of autumn leaves, laced in ribbons of silver light as a trail of smoke snuck across the moon above. Her knees shook as she stood, and a tentative step forward left her wincing. She ignored it and stalked down the slope, fixing her eyes on the white moon, one foot after the other, _winter is coming._ An almighty crash came from the undergrowth on her left and she whipped behind the nearest oak. Her breath was baited, hand on her sword hilt.

She heard the heavy boots of a man ripping through the bracken, breaking branches and crunching leaves in their wake. _Calm as still water._ She listened closely. He was alone. Steps were slow, ambling. Though the racket his boots made as they walked suggested he was huge, she knew one man alone was no threat to her. _Valar morghulis._ No. The footfalls came closer. He might have come from where the smoke billowed. He might have food, shelter and a warm fire. He might not want to share it. The boots beat closer. Closer still. A low whistle wound through the moonlit glen. The tune whispered in Arya’s ears, full of yearning, or warmth, of ghosts and regrets. Did she know it? The boots came closer. The whistle grew louder. She was captivated. The boots stopped in their tracks. She peered through a gap in the gnarled oak branches, clusters of acorns dusted in silver moonlight framing the dense glen. He was cast in shadow. Built like an ox- no- a bull, thick arms piled high with firewood.

“Hullo?” He called. Had he heard her? Seen her? Impossible, surely. The boots came closer, drawing him into a pool of dappled moonlight. It lit a strong stubbled jaw and waves of dark hair. He wore no armour. He shrugged to himself and began his walk again, whistling as he went.

Arya leapt from behind the tree to stand in his way.

“By the mother!” He yelped, arms flailing, sending logs clattering to the ground. Arya’s knuckles were white against her sword hilt. The man caught his breath and peered at her face. She stepped backwards.

“You…” The man breathed “You…” He held his hands open at his sides as one might calm a skittish horse. The watery light fell in a sheet across her face. “You… you’ve got leaves in your hair, miss”

The forest grew quiet once more.

“Do you have food? Shelter?” She spat.

“Of course. You lost? Here, do I know you m’lady?”

“I’m not your lady.”

“Alright. You need some help then?” He came closer, his eyes burned blue in the half light. He made her uncomfortable. _Valar morghulis._ Something about him didn’t sit right at all, it was as if he’d awoken something in her, some strange loss, some fear she hadn’t felt in years. Better to kill him.

“Do you have food and shelter?”

“Aye, miss. You look like you’ve been through hell. Can I offer you an arm?”

“No.”

“You look hurt, that’s all. My forge isn’t too far away. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“On my honour, I won’t harm you m’la- miss” _No, you won’t._ She thought. She took one final step towards him, into the full light of the moon, and saw his face properly for the first time. His earnest eyes gazed down at her, alight with a warmth she’d forgotten existed, calming her racing heart to a soft murmur. The glen fell away, the churning sense of loss grew from the pit of her stomach, pierced by a strange exultation and something like clarity- and it was gone. Dampened by Death, all encompassing, roiling beneath the surface.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

“Just a blacksmith. My name’s Gendry, Gendry Waters.” He brought a wide hand slowly to her face- “Excuse me but- but you look an awful lot like-“ He dropped the hand to his side. “Could I have your name, miss?”

“Oh. It’s Ary- _no_ \- it’s Arry.”

Arya barely recalled what happened next, as a strange _whoop_ erupted from the blacksmith. Suddenly the forest was gone and she was knocked from her feet, held in a crushing hug with her face nestled in a wall of a chest. Her first thought wasn’t to reach for her sword. It should have been, but all she could think of was how he smelt of steel, and acorns, and something that she used to know as _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end!!! She hasn't remembered him yet and there's still a pack to reunite and the North to avenge!


End file.
